


I Never Told You That I Wear Skirts for a Living

by chemomantic



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 13:31:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1746422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemomantic/pseuds/chemomantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gee's into wearing schoolgirl uniforms. Frank didn't know he was into guys who wore schoolgirl uniforms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hundred Donna Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I was bored. Someone wanted a fanfic. I thought, hey, maybe taking my mind off my own characters will get me out of writer's block and into the flow of creativity, so I decided to take one for the team and just...do it, I suppose.

      Since the beginning, Gerard had never really thought anything of it--of the black Mary Janes adorning his gray knee-sock clad feet, of the tight white blouse he couldn't quite decide whether to leave the top button undone or not, of the longer pieces of his thick, black, chin-length-when-straightened hair that vaguely resembled a raven's feathers dusting around his pale, feminine face. He definitely didn't think twice about the short gray skirt falling just above the midst of his creamy white thighs that he'd shaven completely hairless the night before. (And, man, he had to give girls credit--shaving his legs was definitely not the most enjoyable thing he'd ever done, but the end result . . . hey, the baby-butt smoothness of his legs was totally worth it.)

      Yes, dressing like this was not an issue for Gerard. In fact, it was a solution. Dressing this way made him feel comfortable with himself, and if he was happy, certainly nothing could be wrong with this, right? As Gerard asked himself that question while staring at his reflection in the mirror, the alien feeling of fulfillment surprised him. He'd always known there was something slightly (okay, maybe not _slightly_ , he was wearing his best friend's spare schoolgirl uniform for Christ's sake) off about himself, how his dislike for men's clothing couldn't've been under the Webster's definition of normal. He was a man (at least, that's what the thing in his panties [yes, actual panties!] was there to prove), and he had no problem with that. But just because he was a boy, didn't mean he had to dress like one. This, the reflection across from him in his full-length mirror, was who he was. And nobody could take that fulfillment of finally feeling comfortable in his own skin away. _This is right_ , he decided with a nod as he made his way downstairs, to the kitchen.

      _Not even the asshole kids from school can take it away. Neither can Mikey nor my parents_ , he reminded himself.

       And how close he was to almost fully believing any of that load of crap.

      "Gerard, sweetie, I--Christ!" his mother gasped when he turned the corner into the kitchen, nearly dropping Mikey's glass of orange juice she'd been carrying. Mikey always had their mom make him freshly squeezed orange juice on the first day of school. Gerard froze in his steps just outside the entrance to the kitchen, but he kept his head held up high and his shoulders squared back. "What in the world are you--whose is--Ger _ard_!"

      "What?" he asked, swallowing the nervousness down with a thick gulp. He hadn't fully prepared himself for any rejection just quite yet. Gerard didn't dare look over at Mikey, even more fearful of his younger brother's reaction than his mom's. And he shouldn't've been afraid, for he and Mikey told each other everything and were always there for each other. Just because Gerard was in a skirt, didn't mean Mikey would treat him any differently.

      Right?

      "Relax, Mom," Gerard soon heard the monotone voice of his younger brother mumble. Both Gerard and his mother looked over at the younger Way. "He's been doing this up in his bedroom for, like, a week. I can't believe it took you this long to figure it out."

      _Right_. Gerard furrowed his eyebrows quizzically at Mikey; how had Mikey known that Gerard had been dressing this way for a week? He'd been extra careful to only put the girls' clothes on during the early morning and/or late evening in order to avoid any confrontations from anyone, and he'd been careful to hide the uniform way back in the black hole he called a closet, and he only washed the uniform at the laundromat several blocks away from the home. Plus, the two brothers didn't even attend the same school--Mikey rode the bus to Belleville Middle School, while Gerard drove his car to Belleville High, which was the opposite way.

      Gerard watched anxiously as his mother scrutinized him, most likely still trying to figure out why, exactly, her son was wearing a skirt. He reminded himself to stay calm, that if he didn't freak out on her, she wouldn't freak out on him. He was her son, and she was his mother, and therefore their love was unconditional.

      Right?

      Suddenly, a loud honk blared from outside. Mikey rose up from the kitchen chair, slung his unzipped backpack over his gangly shoulders and made his way to the front door. "That's Pete!" Mikey called. Gerard furrowed his brows. It was only 7:30; why was Pete here so early? "Come on, Gee, let's go." Gerard was also confused as to why Mikey was dragging him along. Yeah, they all went to school together, but Pete was Mikey's friend (despite Pete being a junior while Mikey was just starting his first day as a freshman) and Gerard would just feel awkward carpooling with them. Still, Mikey grabbed Gerard's wrist and hauled him out of the kitchen, away from their gawking mother.

      "We'll talk later, Gerard," Donna Way called uselessly from behind them. Gerard didn't reply, just sighed: _Not right_. He should've just gotten up before the sun rose and headed to school early in order to get out of the house in time before his family saw him. It was at that moment that Gerard realized Mikey was saving the awkward conversation with their mom. Gerard could kiss him.

      "How did you find out?" Gerard asked Mikey as the two stopped before the front door. Mikey, ever the expressive little shit, simply lifted and dropped his shoulders, his face stoic.

      "You've kind of became the talk amongst town, lately, as some spontaneous cross-dresser. I figured, of all people, it had to be you, but it's kind of a surprise to Mom, I guess, finding out you're the boy all her friends had been gossiping about during her book club." Mikey noticed Gerard's crestfallen expression at the news of being the joke around town. "Don't worry, Gee. Just give her time to process it all. That's all you can do."

      Neither of the two said anything after that. Their silence was interrupted by Mikey's school bus blaring its horn again. Just as Mikey was about to turn the doorknob, Gerard latched his hand onto Mikey's thin wrist. "And you're okay with it--with me, wearing this?"

      Mikey didn't even hesitate, simply shrugged indifferently. "You're still the ten year old loser who wanted to be Madonna for Halloween. Nothing's changed, and I still don't care. Now can you please let go of me? Pete and I are supposed to decorate Alicia's locker 'cause she finally dumped that weird Pedicone kid." 

      Gerard, unable to control the sudden burst of appreciation and thankfulness for having a brother as awesome as Mikey, engulfed the little string bean in a tight hug. Mikey awkwardly patted the back of Gerard's shoulder (which was as much of a hug Mikey knew how to give anyone) before he pulled open the door, stepped outside and was gone.

 

* * *

 

      Gerard had practiced getting out of a car in a skirt throughout the summer with his best friend Lindsey. She had shown him where to place his legs, how to slide out of his seat, and how to go at a steady pace so that the front of his skirt didn't fly up due to the pervert known as Gravity.

      Yes, Gerard had practiced. Yes, Gerard had become skilled at the Art of No Marilyn Monroe Moments. But none of that mattered at that moment as Gerard turned off the ignition and stared wide-eyed at the nearly overflowing abundance of high school students lurking about. It was as if he'd forgotten each snippet of advice Lindsey had given him-- _cross your legs at your thighs, turn yourself with your hands, not your butt_ \--and all he could do was look around and see if some all-knowing Spirit of the Skirts could come falling from the sky to help him.

      "Need a hand?" a voice suddenly giggled as the person stuck their head through Gerard's rolled down window. Gerard nearly had a heart attack and almost punched poor Lindsey in the face had he not recognized her trademark long, black pigtails dangling right in front of him.

      "I think I need some pants," he responded feebly. Lindsey furrowed her brows.

      "Since when did Gerard Way yearn for _pants_?" she scoffed.

      "Since he realized that as soon as he steps out of this car, there's no going back."

      Lindsey rolled her eyes. "Stop being so melodramatic and get out of the car. I wanna see!"

      With a sigh, Gerard rolled up his window, cracked open his car door, stuck a black Mary Jane out, and already Lindsey started squealing in excitement at just the sight of his _ankles_. He also knew that she would keep squealing until he got his ass out of the car, so before more people looked over at them, Gerard quickly exited the driver's seat and slammed the car door shut.

      Lindsey hushed immediately. All the excitement traveled from her voice to her now growing, widening eyes and her involuntary jazz hands.

      "You look _hot_ ," she practically growled with approval. "Jesus Christ, Gerard, you look really, really fucking _hot_ , like, damn! You out-sexify all the other girls and boys in this entire school--except for me, of course," she joked with a wink.

      "Please don't ever say that word again," Gerard requested, shaking his head in humorous disbelief. Sometimes, Lindsey could be quite the character.

      "What word? School?"

      "No, 'out-sexify.'"

      "Oh. Why?"

      "'Cause. It's weird."

      "You're weird."

      "Thanks."

      "No problem. Now come on! We have straight guys to trick."

      Gerard let out a laugh. He didn't wear the skirt for anyone except himself, but he let Lindsey haul him towards the school doors nonetheless and did his best to ignore the hundreds of gawking, wide-eyed stares that reminded him eerily of his mother's.

 

* * *

 

      As soon as Gerard entered his advisory, he got dress coded. It was as if Miss Jackson had been hovering around him ever since he entered school property like some sort of airborne rat, just waiting until the perfect moment to ensnare him in her yellow claws. And that perfect moment just so happened to be in front of his entire homeroom.

      He'd feared this would happen, feared some asshole teacher would make him change, even though he  _was_ , technically, wearing one of the required school uniforms. But Miss Jackson was a crotchety, nasty old hag, so of course she wouldn't see it Gerard's way, so of course Gerard was going to have to head down to the main office and get his outfit checked out by the principal. Only after receiving some torment from his classmates, though, 'cause what's the point in making a student look like a loser in front of their class if the rest of the classroom can't shit on that student with you?

      Gerard ignored the giggles and fingerpointing, just like he had in the hallways with Lindsey on the way here. He didn't care about any of their comments, nor did their idiocy affect him in any which way. He was just glad Bert and his crew weren't here, 'cause then he would care, and then their idiocy would most definitely affect him.

      Miss Jackson hung up the phone and turned back to face Gerard, her wrinkly, messily-applied lipstick-coated (that were about five shades too dark) curling into a triumphant smirk. "Head on down to Principal Cobain for a dress code referral, Mr. Way."

      Gerard resisted the urge to curl his lip and spit out a,  _Head on down to Mr. Saporta's room to receive the proper fucking that you seemed to have never gotten_ , but first bell hadn't even rung yet, and he didn't want to get in even more trouble than he possibly already was.

      With a sigh, Gerard turned on his heel, the folds of his skirt turning with him, making a breathy, agitated huff leave Miss Jackson's lips. "And pull that darned skirt down, will you?"

      The entire way down to the office, Gerard berated himself inside his head for not tugging his skirt down to his ankles and mooning the ever living  _shit_  outta that woman.


	2. Pale Legs, Gray Skirts Makes A-Frank Go Woo-Hoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im really upset about this chapter 'cause originally i had it all written and finished and it was PE RFECT but then my stupid laptop just shut down and deleted everything and i had to go back and rewrite the entire thing and it just mentally destroyed me cuz i know the copy won't be better than the original but i am sorry just pls enjoy the shitty version okay??? :\

      "Mrs. Love, may I tell you something regarding the school's dress code policy?" Frank asked the air around him, as he could not see the secretary, Mrs. Love, for he had his head resting against the wall with a Welcome to Belleville High pamphlet shielding his eyes from the bright office lights above him.

      "No, Frank, you may not. You already asked me about the dress code policy three times. Plus, I'm in the middle of a game of solitaire."

      "Yeah, keyword: Asked. This time, I have something to say about it."

      "Everything you need to know about the school, including its dress code, is in the pamphlet you've been sleeping under for the past half hour."

      "Well, obviously not everything is in it if I still have a question about it, right? Or, rather, a statement. A proposal, if you will."

      "Frank, I am in a very intense solitaire game at the moment. If you will, please save your question, or statement, or _proposal_ , for later."

      Frank could sense Mrs. Love's sarcasm, which made him like her even more. He'd liked Mrs. Love since he first walked in and saw her stylishly messy platinum blond hair and bright red lips. Although, he wasn't too sure she liked him. Nobody really liked him. Not that he cared. "Mrs. Love, I had no idea that this was how your school treated new students with inquiries regarding the new school they'll be attending."

      Mrs. Love sighed. Frank listened as she made a few clicks with her mouse before saying an, "Alright, shoot." Frank grinned and sat up straighter in his seat while brushing the pamphlet off his face, wincing slightly as the luminous lighting invaded his honey-hazel eyes.

      "I just wanted to say that, mind my French, it is bull _shit_ that I'm not allowed to wear my facial piercings and regular clothing. What ever happened to schools supporting the diversity of students and allowing them to discover who they truly are through self-expression?"

      Mrs. Love groaned, and Frank could also sense her annoyance. People usually got annoyed of him fairly quickly. Not that he cared about that, either. "Frank, the dress code is a school policy, which means you must follow it, self-expression or not. You can dress as you please outside of school, alright? We don't make the rules; the district does."

      "Alright, but what if I paint my jacket blue?" Frank bargained, though just the thought of going anywhere near his vintage Misfits blazer with a paintbrush terrified him.

      "And what if I go back to my solitaire game?" Mrs. Love said, putting an end to their conversation, but Frank knew she'd already gone back to playing long before he got the second half of his sentence out.

      Frank let out a small huff and leaned back in his seat, folding his arms over his chest only after repositioning the pamphlet over his eyes. So far, Frank hated this school and its boring policies--so boring that he thought they should change the place's name from Belleville High to Boreville Low. Frank chuckled at his joke, as lame as it was, before he got bored after three seconds and fell silent again. Frank never liked silence, never liked sitting still, never liked having to be forced to wear something he didn't want to wear. Instead of the navy jacket, white dress shirt, red tie, gray dress pants and black penny loafers, Frank wore a white with black accents Black Flag t-shirt, an old pair of Converse and off-gray skinny jeans that exposed his bruised knees and sagged the slightest bit, revealing the very top of his underwear which read: **I Hate Mondays** , which Frank had thought was fucking hilarious because today was Tuesday.

      What Frank hadn't found fucking hilarious, though, was that no one would be seeing his ironic undergarments because his ass was firmly planted in an uncomfortable wooden chair, which was most likely bolted to the office floor. Frank wondered for a second if the chair really _was_ bolted to the ground before deciding to test it. He leaned back in his seat and surged at the nothingness before him, and sure enough, the chair went flying forward, Frank toppling out of it.

      "What in the hell are you doing, Frank?!" Mrs. Love yelped. Frank didn't answer right away, already tasting the blood in his mouth--his lip piercing had been jerked too hard and cut deep into an area of his lip that it most likely was not supposed to. Hmm. Maybe there was a reason as to why schools didn't allow facial piercings.

      "Testing to see if this chair's bolted to the ground or not. I don't think it is," he answered.

      Frank felt Mrs. Love prop him up and start touching at his forehead, shaking her head when she touched a particular tender spot right above his left eyebrow. "I think you're going to have one nasty goose egg. Go to the nurse's office and grab an ice pack, alright? Also, while you're in there, have her disinfect your cut and take both of those piercings out."

      Frank mentally fist pumped. At least someone would be seeing his ultra rad underwear, school nurse or not.

 

 

* * *

 

      When Frank returned to the main office after getting put back together by Nurse Nicks (who'd told Frank she could call her Stevie as soon as she saw his shirt, which Frank thought was pretty awesome), he stopped in his tracks at the sight before him. There was another person in there, a girl, to be exact. She was leaning over Mrs. Love's desk, and the two of them seemed to be engrossed in conversation because neither of them even glanced at Frank's arrival. Which Frank was used to, you know, not getting noticed and all, so he didn't mind too much. He just slowly crept his way back to his seat, which was directly behind the girl. As far as he could tell, she had layered black hair that fell just above her shoulders, and her legs--Jesus fuck, her _legs_! They were long, and pale, and all Frank could think about was running his fingers up the front of that tiny gray skirt of hers, slipping past the edges of her panties-- _oh, fuck, I wonder what color they are_ , the horny, teenaged dog side of Frank thought. He very nearly began to press his hand against the crotch of his jeans, but the scenery around him quickly came back into his line of vision, and he realized that he was in a public school office and not in his bedroom holding a magazine of a naughty schoolgirl in front of his face.

      "Frank, is there a problem?" Mrs. Love asked, peeking past the girl and peering over her counter at Frank. Frank gulped.

      "Uh, what?" he answered lamely.

      "You're squirming around like a worm. Either change into your required uniform and squirm around in gym class, or sit still until the day's over. Also, didn't I tell you to take those piercings out?"

      Frank barely paid attention to her once he noticed that the girl was now turned around and looking at--who? Him? Yes, _him_! Her large hazel-green eyes that were framed by the longest, darkest lashes Frank had ever seen were actually voluntarily trained on him, of all people, which didn't say much because there were only two other people besides the girl in the office, him and Mrs. Love, but still. The girl was looking at him, and Frank had never felt as big of a loser as he did then, a stingingly cold ice pack numbing the light-colored bruise on his forehead and a white square of gauze taped against his bottom lip. He probably looked like a dork, and if he had to be honest, it sort of embarrassed him to have a girl as pretty as her seeing him like that.

      Frank wasn't about to protest, though. He just stared right back up at her, at her light, plum-colored mouth with the slight indent above the peak of her lips. She had a strong, triangular nose that was pointed at the tip, but it fit her face well and made her look like anything other than a witch. There was also a little bit of chub on her cheeks, giving her less of a feminine complexion for some reason, but she was still very pretty nonetheless. Plus, her entire school uniform fit her perfectly, especially that skirt, that damned skirt--

      "Kurt will see you now, Gerard."

      Frank furrowed his brows quizzically. What kind of name was Gerard for a girl? He watched as the girl turned and walked to the principal's office, and noted the modest sway in her step that made her skirt swirl slightly around her mid-thighs. He sighed. Alright, so what if she had a guy's name? Maybe her parents had a weird obsession over Gerard Butler. All that really mattered was that she was fucking gorgeous, okay, and Frank suddenly found no reason to complain about the school's dress code.

 


End file.
